The Life in the Flame
by The Cynic
Summary: I hope someone already hasn't gotten to this idea.. It follows what exactly Charlie Weasley's been doing in Romania, and includes dragons, witches, betrayal (maybe), and a ring of evil wizards smuggling illegal dragon parts out of the country. Yes, it sho
1. Prologue

His stomach churned nervously as it had never done before in any other match, threatening to spew his lunch all over the emerald Quidditch field. Confidence, he told himself, confidence. While he had lost a few matches here and there, he was widely acknowledged to be the best player in the entire school, and the Gryffindor teams had competed in matches of this caliber, before. That, he thought, was something, for the talent to be found there was remarkable. But still.. the Championship was special, and he sincerely wanted to win, deep in his heart. For his parents, perhaps, or perhaps to show that he was just as good as Bill ever was.  
  
Charlie Weasley gulped and tugged his scarlet robes into position, swinging the latest model Cleansweep to a jaunty angle over his shoulder. He was not the ideal build for a Seeker, for though he was rather short, his body construction tended to the stocky, rather than light and thin. No one could deny that he had the eye, and consistently spotted the Snitch before his opponent did. It was an odd talent, and few people these days had it. He had always had a keen appreciation of detail, and it translated itself onto the field. And so, it was with these thoughts that he stepped out into the arena, listening to the yells and hoots of the spectators.  
  
It was Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw, and the Slytherins were simply furious. In the last qualifying match, Gryffindor had beaten them by ten points, and it galled them fiercely. They insisted that there had been cheating, someone had broken the rules, but were unable to prove exactly when and where this was. Charlie couldn't help but smirk to himself as he thought this, shaking his head sadly. No matter what the year or the circumstances, the Slytherins were always the same. From here, he could see the champions of a lost cause, dressed in green, and glowering at the two teams on the field. They were of course rooting for Ravenclaw, though even the praise that they awarded that team was grudging.  
  
He could also see his closest friends, turned out to cheer them on. Sorcha, an Irish witch with the deepest black hair he'd ever seen, was a tiny whirlwind of crimson: her braids had been tied with red ribbons, she wore a red hat; her robes were red.. It hurt to look at her for too long. His other best friend, Simon, was standing next to her, rather difficult to miss. Simon was one of the tallest people he'd ever met; close to six feet by the time of his twelfth birthday. He'd leveled off somewhere around six four, a cheerful smile wreathed over his face, wrists showing out of the ends of his robes.  
  
There were others, the whole of Gryffindor House, especially the seventh years, seemed to be there. The others followed him, the announcer yelling at their names as they came. "Here are the Ravenclaws! As fine a team as they've seen in quite a while! Jones! Aiken! Kim! O'Meara! Goldberg! Caerwyn! Aaaaaaand— Still!" They raised their hands above their heads and pumped their fists in the air, and the crowd, or at least, those of it dressed in blue, howled their appreciation. The Gryffindors simply howled, attempting to drown out their rival supporters. Charlie found it impossible to hear just one of the phrases shrieked by the group; it all blended together into a sort of roar that was reminiscent of a freight train.  
  
Larissa Meeker, the announcer, continued, her voice amplified through a magical bullhorn, as the team in red trickled onto the field. "The Gryffindors, ladies and gents, the Gryffindors!" She gave them time to applaud, and then continued. "Here they are! Again, one of the most excellent squads that this House has ever produced! Ulrich! Patterson! Gadling! Kelley! Finnigan! Aisling! Aaaaaaaaannnnnnd—Weasley!"  
  
Perhaps he was imagining things, but it seemed as though the yells were more pronounced than they had been previously. He could feel himself blushing, which was always embarrassing, for his pale face turned bright red, and clashed horribly with his hair. Kelley thumped him on the back, huge grin on his face. "Don't be nervous, Weasley! We've done this before." Charlie grinned lopsidedly at his friend, shaking his head.  
  
"Nervous? Me?"  
  
Madam Hooch was waiting for them, a forbidding presence on a broom. "Right!" she said shortly, pausing to let everyone clamber onto their brooms. Charlie, as Captain, shook Caerwyn's hand. The girl was a Beater, and built like a bear. She gripped his hand tightly, and he pulled it away, face contorted in an expression of disgust. "None of that!" Madam Hooch admonished, on her own broom now. Charlie lifted off the ground on her whistle, as she kicked the lid from the box, releasing the different Quidditch balls. Instantly, the Snitch flitted off to the other side of the arena, and vanished from sight.  
  
Charlie yelled to his team; "Right, you know the drill!" They rolled their eyes, having already received quite a long speech from him earlier, in the locker rooms. Blond, ironically named Ciaran Finnigan pretended to fall off of his broom in disgust, moaning. "Not again! Not another sermon!"  
  
"Hey, Finnigan, keep your eye on the Quaffle!"  
  
"Yessir!" Ciaran replied, snagging the red sphere under his arm. Swerving around Jones, he pelted towards the Ravenclaw end of the field, where their Keeper, Aiken, waited anxiously. A Bludger rocketed towards his head, but Patterson hit it hard with the club, almost knocking O'Meara off of his broom. "That better, sir?" Ciaran asked facetiously, dipping low to avoid another Chaser.  
  
"And Gryffindor in possession!" Larissa Meeker exclaimed excitedly, "Chaser Finnigan flying fast! It could be— yes! It is! GOAL! Gryffindor up, ten to nothing!"  
  
Charlie whooped excitedly and flew over Ciaran, slapping the boy on the back. The victim yelped in annoyance, and returned the Quaffle to Madam Hooch. While this went on, Charlie floated over the stadium, searching for the Snitch. Several times he thought that he might have seen it, but when he dived to check, the Ravenclaw Seeker, Still, followed closely behind. Larissa was still yelping into the microphone, he could just imagine Professor McGonagall sprayed with spittle. It was an amusing picture, and Charlie snickered to himself.  
  
Wait! There? No. That wasn't it. "Gryffindor in the lead, sixty-forty—" He thought he saw something – diving, dropping, there! Was that the Snitch? Suddenly, someone careened into him, almost knocking the solid figure from its broom. "Shit!" he yelled, and saw Caerwyn zooming away down the field, looking smug.  
  
"FOUL! And a penalty to Gryffindor – ooooh. Very nice move by Keeper Aiken, difficult to block on a penalty. Too bad—sorry, Professor." Larissa continued with her running commentary. "And Gryffindor gets its own back with a nice Bludger hit towards Kim— yes, I know, Professor."  
  
Charlie's stomach twisted as he saw the Snitch, glittering near the bottom of the field. He was fairly sure that Still hadn't seen it, and so dove as quickly as possible, his Cleansweep straining to meet the demands put upon it. "Weasley has seen the Snitch!" That was Larissa; but he couldn't let that distract him now. Swirling in a strange parody of a dance, the two Seekers dropped towards the glittering golden form, so close together that Charlie could have caught hold of Still's robes, if he had so wished. An inch more— and just an inch—  
  
Got it! His fingers closed tightly around the struggling golden ball, soaring back upwards to hold the thing high in his hand. "GRYFFINDOR WINS! IN POSSIBLY THE SHORTEST CHAMPIONSHIP IN THE HISTORY OF HOGWARTS!" The Gryffindor team swirled upwards to mob Charlie, still waving the Snitch in the air, grinning insanely. He had won the Quidditch Championship before, though in his seventh year, with Sorcha and Simon shrieking in the stands, that was a feeling that he had always known was possible. Gone was the twisting nervousness in the stomach – it was a perfect day. Just perfect.  
  
-----  
  
Robes sticking to his body, covered in sweat, Charlie trudged with the rest of the team towards the locker rooms, still grinning widely. His face hurt, for it had remained in one position for too long. His body, also, was bruised, from the numerous hugs and from being pounded on the back by every Gryffindor within arm's reach. After showering and changing, they trooped out again, heading to the celebratory end of year feast. With the Quidditch victory, Gryffindor had won the House championship for the third year in a row.  
  
To his surprise, there was a wizard waiting for them outside of the locker rooms, a thin man dressed in neat black robes, with an equally neat mustache and a bald spot. "Ahem, hem," he said, and the Gryffindor team glanced at each other curiously. What did this oddball want? The neat little man stood there watching them for a moment, and Charlie was strongly reminded of his mum's second cousin, who was an accountant. The thought brought a small smile to his face.  
  
"Can we help you, sir?" Christopher Kelley asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Ahem, hem, yes, actually," the man said, clearing his throat nervously. "I am Nigel Sanford, and I, ahem, wished to speak to Charles Weasley."  
  
"That's me," Charlie said, exchanging another puzzled glance with the team.  
  
"Ahem, I, ahem, represent the, ahem, British national team. We are, ahem, looking for a new Seeker, Mr. Weasley, and, ahem, the managers have decided that, ahem, you are quite fit for the job. Hem, ahem. If you so desire, you will be accepted onto the team."  
  
The team erupted into yells, and Charlie was pounded on the back again. Wincing, he managed to extricate himself from the pile, blinking. "Really? Um. I don't know what to say." Shock had not yet set in, there was a sort of numb surprise that lingered around his brain. He loved Quidditch, to be sure, but did he want to spend the rest of his life doing it? He had made plans with Sorcha and Simon – wait. This man thought he was good enough to play for Britain – it was the chance of a lifetime. He had promised them – but for Britain!  
  
"I, ahem, can give you to, hem, hem, think about our proposition."  
  
"Yeah.. thanks.." Charlie said vaguely.  
  
-----  
  
"Lunacy!" Molly Weasley exclaimed.  
  
"You're giving up the opportunity to play for your country in order to study dragons?" Arthur Weasley said, sounding dumbfounded. His parents were watching him as though he had suddenly grown several extra arms, or perhaps had turned into a particularly stupid giraffe. In a moment, thought Charlie, he's going to say something about foolishness. "But that's— that's just foolish!" It's so nice to be right, and so painful at the same time, he thought.  
  
"Dad, we've had this planned for years."  
  
"But.. ROMANIA?"  
  
"Mom! Calm down!"  
  
"I will not calm down!"  
  
"At least try to be reasonable?"  
  
"Charlie," Arthur said, voice lowering somewhat. "This— it's amazing, it truly is. You're throwing away a chance at—"  
  
It had been going on like this for hours, and frankly, Charlie was quite sick of it. It's difficult to be amiable and even tempered when your parents deride your dreams, and all over – what? Nothing. Broomsticks and Snitches. Normally, Molly and Arthur never got this angry – it was strange. But now, it was his turn to lose his temper. When Charlie was mad, his words cut deep, but never rose above an even tone. Perhaps that was why he so rarely grew temperamental, for when he did, someone was hurt. But now – now it had gone too far. "Look, Dad, just because you were never good enough to get on the team, and you wanted too, doesn't mean that I want to spend the rest of my life searching for a golden ball!"  
  
Arthur went pale, but Molly moved forward like a venomous snake striking, slapping her son hard across the face. "Stop that this instant, Charles Oliver Weasley! I won't have you talking to us like that." His head recoiled as her palm hit him, but snapped back again, normally cheerful brown eyes narrowed, lips pressed together in rage.  
  
"Well, perhaps you should think about how you talk to me, for a change! I'm not perfect like Bill, or your darling little Percy! Perhaps you should think about what I want out of life! But that would be too much trouble, wouldn't it?" His hands shook, clenching into fists. Whirling on the ball of his heel, Charlie fled, face flushed, and heart sick. 


	2. The Beginning

Excerpts from the correspondence of Charles Oliver Weasley:  
  
Dear Mum  
I'm sorry I talked to Dad that way but I'm serious about going to Romania. Quidditch is just Quidditch. Only a game, Mum. I want to study dragons & it's what I've always been interested in. You'll be talking to me again soon I hope...  
  
Charlie;  
Dearie, we only want the best for you, we want you to be happy. It isn't only your fault, Charlie, and we're also sorry for the way we spoke of your ambitions, but really, dear, Romania? ...We'll hardly see you at all. Where will you be studying? Your father gives his best wishes as well... Please come home...  
  
Sorcha!!!  
It's a go! I'm back at the Burrow and they've given me some money in the last owl & it looks like they'll be giving their blessings as well. Do you know where Simon is he never gave me his new address... Enclosed is train schedules to Romania & information on getting passports – it's a Muggle thing you know...  
  
Hey Charlie,  
Sorcha sent me the information. If you pass the Apparating test next time, we won't even need it. Great job! Good thing your parents gave their permission. I'm not very good at writing letters so I'll keep this short. The Romanian Center for the Study of Dragons (it's not as impressive as it sounds. It's really just a small building and it gets burnt down almost every other year) gave their okay on it too. Some sort of exchange program of scientists that they're doing with the UK. So that's that...  
  
Charlie,  
You and Simon seriously need work on your writing skills – perhaps if you'd spent less time with your heads in the clouds, and more time studying, your letters would read as if they were written by eighteen year olds, not first years. But I digress... What's this that I hear about you Apparating on top of some poor old Muggle woman? It's too bad that you can't hear letters, because I'm laughing uncontrollably right now. You do know what to pack, correct? They said nothing that's overly flammable – even the papers have to have some sort of spell on them! ...Well, I was just writing to remind you. In Romania, the attaché for the Study of Magical Beasts is a man named Teodor. I'm under the impression that he has a nasty temper...  
  
Sorcha:  
I passed! So we won't have to go to the trouble of taking trains after all. Meet me & Simon in the garden at the Burrow. Sorry. I just had to add.. You're worried that /he/ has a temper? Perhaps you should worry about your own, first. Don't write so much in your reply. Errol can't handle heavy loads. Lots of love. Charlie.  
  
Charlie,  
Darling, if you weren't Simon's friend, I do believe that I'd be forced to kill you myself. Try not to aggravate the attaché as horribly as you aggravate me. You like to live dangerously, don't you...  
  
-----  
  
After weeks of careful scheduling, and a week of frantic planning and last minute debacles, it looked as though their enterprise was about to get under way. It was a fairly sunny, incredibly warm day, and the clouds drifted lazily across the sky, floating half-heartedly, as though the heat had leeched them of their will to move. The wind whipped at their hair, though in Arthur's case there was not much to move. Charlie fidgeted outside the door of the Burrow, glancing sideways at Sorcha. "He's going to be late again, isn't he?"  
  
With a deep, heart-felt sigh, the tiny witch shook her head admonishingly. "Now, Charlie, you must be expecting him to do as such – it's in his nature." Crossing her arms over her chest, Sorcha scowled darkly, and added, "Though I wish it wasn't. Perhaps we shall beat it from him?" Despite her diminutive size, Charlie judged her fully capable of dealing out such a thrashing.  
  
"No, Sorcha, for you'd feel terrible if you did."  
  
"I would not, you audacious scapegrace!"  
  
Suddenly, Simon appeared out of thin air next to Mrs. Weasley, and promptly blinked in surprise and fell backward, toppling over the various bits of luggage that he'd been carrying. Charlie's parents hid smiles behind their hands and gravely helped the boy to his feet, though he towered over Molly, and was a half a head taller than Arthur. "Um, sorry I'm late," he said sheepishly, pushing a flop of yellow hair from his eyes.  
  
"You bet you'll be sorry!" Sorcha exclaimed, though she gave Simon as large a hug as anyone.  
  
"Anger is her way of showing affection," Charlie whispered, to his bemused father.  
  
To his surprise, Sorcha merely grinned cheekily in his direction, than adjusted the top of Simon's robes. They had been on at a rather odd angle; he was a person who naturally attracted mess and disorder. She turned a keen eye on the pile of bags and suitcases that had built up. "Mrs. Weasley? Mr. Weasley? If it's all right with you, we would like to be going."  
  
Arthur and Molly glanced at each other, than the plump witch stepped forward and reached up to grip his chin, pulling his head down so that she could kiss Charlie on the cheek. Releasing him, Molly waggled a finger. "Behave yourself! I don't want to hear anything from the Romanian Minister of Magic, that you've—"  
  
"Muuuum.. that's your speech for Fred and George, remember? You're getting us mixed up again."  
  
"You know what I meant, Charlie. We love you."  
  
"Good luck, son," said Arthur Weasley.  
  
The three youths gripped their bags, took deep breaths, and disappeared.  
  
-----  
  
"You are the English wizards?" a heavily accented voice asked them, sounding quite sour about the whole matter.  
  
"I'm Irish," Sorcha said, eyes narrowing.  
  
Charlie poked a warning finger in her back, whispering. "What happened to not aggravating the attaché?"  
  
He was fairly tall, dark headed, dark eyed, and would have been quite pleasant looking, if his face had not had the appearance of having been squished into an expression of extreme disgust and disdain. He was perhaps five years older than they, not at all ancient to be in charge of a research position, even as ill funded a one as this. "I," he said, voice a carefully timbered baritone, "Am Teodor Osadci, and this," a wave of his hand indicated the building behind him, "Is the Romanian Center for the Study of Dragon Research.  
  
"My colleagues, Oana, Nicolae, Sofia, and Aurel." So many things to see! Charlie was horrible with names, so he looked first at the scientist. Oana, a shy looking girl with small glasses perched on the end of a pixie-nose. Nicolae, quiet and incongruously blond in such an area. Sofia, a dark beauty with a smirk on her face, and Aurel, absent-minded and with different colored eyes: one emerald, the other chocolate brown. They chorused their hellos, and in the case of Aurel, a length of questions in rapid Romanian. Where were they from in England, exactly? What was the climate like? Were the dragons of that area as temperamental as those of the Mother Country?  
  
Bemused, Charlie glanced at the other two, who spoke very little Romanian. He did his best to answer in that language. "We.. we have.. little speech," he managed after a moment.  
  
"That should not be much of a problem," Oana spoke up, not in Romanian, but in English. Her voice was soft, and rather whispery, as though she was afraid of being heard. Idly twirling a strand of hair around one finger, she looked up at them through the lenses, and raised one eyebrow. "Teodor speaks some English, and I speak fluently. The others know words, and if you know some in our language, than perhaps we shall be able to cobble together some semblance of understanding." And then, as if embarrassed at delivering such a long speech, she retreated to hide behind Nicolae and Aurel.  
  
After several moments embarrassed silence, the groups of wizards, once separated into two lines, gradually mingled together. Nicolae turned out to be rather bland, a taciturn, sanguine fellow who observed rather than spoke. Aurel, though absent in looks, proved to be anything but: he talked so quickly and so long that Charlie, who had a good ear for languages, was hard put to keep up. Teodor was as he looked, sarcastic and short of temper. Sofia, Charlie thought privately, was quite beautiful, and he thought that perhaps she cast a sly smile in his direction, once or twice.  
  
Tiring of the small talk after several minutes, Charlie detached himself from the group and examined their surroundings. The Center was in a clearing of a forest, a shadowy place populated with pines, the floor a soft and fragrant bed of needles. They were, he could see, at the foot of a mountain range, with the peaks rising majestically in the distance. The mountains themselves were rather rocky, though there were patches of green that he could see.  
  
Closer to them was the Center itself, a building constructed of stone, for quite obvious reasons. Charlie would have bet several galleons that it was spelled with greater protection against flame, though having a research center for dragons in the middle of a pine forest didn't seem like a very bright idea, to him. With a shrug, he went back to examining the edifice. It was two stories tall, though the massive trees on either side dwarfed it. A pleasant enough place, if rather bland.  
  
You'd better get used to it, Charlie. You're here for another seven years. 


	3. Trouble With Mirrors

"The main dragon conservatory in this country— do you have ties with them?" Simon asked, ladling a generous helping of fried potatoes onto his plate, raising one blond eyebrow at Teodor, who sat stiffly in his chair, picking at the food before him. For Simon's trouble, he received a blank glare.  
  
"You could call them that," Teodor said icily. "When they deign to lend a helping hand and offer us money. The rest of time, we are inconvenience, and they ignore."  
  
Across the table, Oana was waving her hands frantically, and shaking her head with a surprising vehemence. Charlie gathered that the conservatory was most likely not the dinner conversation that Teodor would appreciate, and glanced sideways at Simon. Sorcha, on the other hand, had no such compunctions, and indeed, seemed to have forgotten her own advice to Charlie only days earlier. "Why is that, Mr. Osadci?" she asked sweetly, sawing a piece of meat into tiny pieces.  
  
Teodor abruptly pushed his chair back from the table, the wood screeching unpleasantly against the stone floor. "Enjoy dinner," he said, grating voice fading from hearing as he stalked from the room, to the outside. The English delegation blinked at each other, confused; or in Sorcha's case, pleased. Sofia spoke, and her voice was a purr. The Romanian she used was slow and simplified, and even Simon and Sorcha could understand. "Ah, you must excuse Teodor. He used to have an important position there. But not any more. Mistakes were made.."  
  
"And we /wouldn't/ want to bring up old wounds, would we?" Charlie said, putting emphasis on the words as he glanced sideways at his black-haired friend. Evidently she finally took the hint, and opened wide her cornflower-blue eyes at them, blinking innocently. However, no one was fooled, and Aurel even laughed softly to himself, mismatched optics crinkling in a grin. Sorcha had the decency to blush, and returned her attention to her steak.  
  
Simon cleared his throat and looked at Oana. "So, have you been here long? No offense meant, but you look much younger than the others here."  
  
Oana instantly turned an extremely bright red and looked down at the table, gnawing on her lip before answering. Charlie blinked in surprise: it wasn't as if Simon had said anything embarrassing. But the girl seemed to be a shy one, and her response, though in perfect English, was hesitating. "I.. no, I have not. I am seventeen, but I have been here a year." She twisted her napkin between her fingers, causing pale streaks to appear, as the blood was pushed from them.  
  
"Really?" Sorcha said, interested despite herself. "Are you finished with school?"  
  
"Perhaps," said Nicolae, "We leave personal questions for later. Eh?"  
  
"It's fine, Nicolae," Oana said, surprising them all. Charlie, for one, had figured she would not speak unless spoken to. The girl pushed her glasses further up onto her nose, they had slipped down to the tip. It seemed to Charlie as though she was constantly fidgeting nervously, and he had the sudden desire to grab her hands and hold them down on the table, and tell her to calm down. "No. I dropped out." She said no more, and no one asked her anything else.  
  
As the food gradually disappeared and appetites slackened, Sofia rose importantly and surveyed them with snapping brown eyes. "I show you rooms," she said, in broken English, before switching over to Romanian again. "They're rather small. They could have been built larger, but we thought that privacy would be preferable." Here, she smiled knifelike at Simon and Charlie, who glanced at each other. Simon rolled his eyes, but Charlie only shrugged.  
  
The rooms were, as stated, tiny. Three of them, in a row, to house the newly arrived wizards, each with a nametag slipped into a holder on the door. Inside each was a cot tucked into the corner, a desk and chair, and a small stand for holding spare robes, over that rested a mirror. Even with that miniscule number of furnishings, there wasn't much room to move, and Charlie was forced to sidle sideways through the space left between each piece. "Ouch!" he exclaimed, banging his shin on the desk.  
  
After Sofia had left, Simon and Sorcha piled into his room. Sorcha sat on the desk, as she was the shortest one there; Simon had the chair, and Charlie sprawled on the cot. "So what d' you think of them?" he asked, propping his head up with his hand. He found that as the night went on, his grasp of the language was improving. It was something like catching a Snitch: you just had to hear the right things, see the right details, and there it was.  
  
"They're a strange bunch of people," Sorcha said, with force. "I like Aurel, though. And Oana."  
  
"Something's wrong with Teodor," Simon said lazily, yawning. "Everything you say, he takes the wrong way. It's impossible to talk to the man." He scratched his head absently, fluffing up already messy hair even further. Another wide yawn that split his face into two, and he squirmed out of the room. "Sorch, you coming?"  
  
"The name, you over-grown oaf, is Sorcha." But she followed him out, slipping her hand into his.  
  
Charlie flopped over on the bed, stretching his arms in the air. The cramped atmosphere of the room was not encroaching, but comforting: a little bit of home. He had shared a room with his brother Bill for all his life, one not that much larger than this. It was a reminder, perhaps, of humble origins. Most of the other Weasley brothers weren't at all happy with their financial situation, Percy especially. In retrospect, Charlie thought, it was surprising that Perce hadn't been put into Slytherin: he certainly had more than enough ambition for it. Charlie, on the other hand, didn't give a flying.. Well. He didn't care much about being wealthy.  
  
Sitting up, Charlie bounced on the bed reflectively for several seconds, glancing around the room again. The mirror caught his attention: there was a large brown splotch in the middle. Ah, well. Mirrors weren't anything important either. "What?" a bubbly voice interrupted him, speaking in Romanian, "You're not going to clean me?"  
  
Startled, Charlie ran a hand through his hair, and put on a pensive expression as he watched the mirror. "Hmm, let me think.." he muttered, and then answered the mirror, just as brightly, "Nope!"  
  
"But.. but you have to clean me! Don't you want to look at yourself?" the mirror said, sounding shocked, though that tinkly-cheerful quality was still in its voice.  
  
"Why would I want to do that?" Charlie asked it, amused.  
  
"Well.. I won't have anything to do, if you don't look at yourself..."  
  
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly a Narcissus."  
  
"Can you just clean off the spot?"  
  
"Nope. It's late, I think I'll go to sleep now."  
  
"You know, if you spent less time in the sun, you wouldn't have so many freckles—"  
  
"If you say one more word, I'm going to smear you with grease and mud."  
  
The mirror abruptly silenced itself.  
  
-----  
  
The sun poking through the window woke Charlie Weasley in the morning, slanting fiery flaxen light into his eyes. "Urgh," he groaned, rubbing at his eyes uncomfortably. He had never been much of a morning person, and the thin curtains on the windows did absolutely nothing to hide the morning brilliance. Rolling over on his side, he peered at the wizard clock affixed to the wall. The hand pointed to 'time to get up,' which elicited another grumble from the sleepy mage.  
  
"Time to get up, my ass," Charlie complained, stumbling around the room and promptly stubbing his toe against the chair.  
  
"See?" the mirror said affably, "Maybe if you'd cleaned me, you would've put the chair somewhere else, and then you wouldn't have bumped your toe—"  
  
"Oh, shut up," Charlie grunted, riffling through the clothes-stand for his robes. To his surprise, it took some time to find them. Apparently the cabinet was enchanted, so that the inside was larger than the outside: it broke some laws of physics quite neatly, which amused him enough that a tiny smile quirked his face. The mirror, he could just tell, was about to comment, and so a warning look was shot in its direction, accompanied by a growled, "Don't even think about it."  
  
He clumped down the stairs to find the kitchen mostly deserted, with only Oana seated at the table, working her way through a bowl of oatmeal. A book was propped in front of her, and the quiet girl seemed to have forgotten about it, so absorbed was she in the words. "What's that?" he asked, voice still creaky with lack of use. Clearing his throat, Charlie glanced over her shoulder at the writing. "Hey! That's in English."  
  
Oana's face gradually turned red, and Charlie sighed. It would be a lot easier to talk to the girl, he supposed, if she didn't flush crimson every time someone looked her way. Hunting around in the cabinets, he found boxes of cereal, and in the refrigerator, bottles of milk. "The bowls and spoons are in that drawer," Oana said, pointing a skinny finger at the proper place.  
  
"Thanks," Charlie said. He munched thoughtfully. "So what /are/ you reading?"  
  
"'Life and Habits of British Wizards,'" she replied, showing him the cover of the book.   
  
"I read that the mountains have one of the highest concentrations of dragons, anywhere in the world."  
  
"That's right," Oana said, pleased. "Mostly Romanian Longhorns, but that's to be expected."  
  
"We've managed to introduce some non-native species into the wild," Aurel said, lounging against the doorway. Startled, Charlie glanced over his shoulder. He hadn't heard the man enter, though Aurel certainly made enough noise once he walked into the kitchen, banging drawers open and shut with exuberant force. "Though nothing really exotic, like the Chinese varieties.." His face went momentarily dreamy.  
  
Oana giggled, shaking her head. "Aurel's obsessed with the really rare types of foreign dragon. The ones he'll probably never see.. Unless, of course, he goes to the Conservatory."  
  
"Not for several years, though," Aurel replied, tipping cereal into his bowl. "You have to start here, first. And only if they like your research, do you get accepted into the Conservatory.." He sighed. "Teodor's still bitter about it. They don't like him very much. Hasn't told us much as to why, but that's Teodor for you—" His last words were muffled by the cereal. "Ouch!" he exclaimed suddenly.  
  
They both looked, startled, at Oana, who had just tossed a breakfast roll at his head. "Don't eat with your mouth full," she said seriously, fighting back a grin. 


End file.
